


Fit

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Crossdressing Kink, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 00:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3309341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only being able to find a skirt for Bilbo proves troublesome for Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fit

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “The dwarves sneak into Lake-Town with the help but Bard but are in need of clothes and supplies. Unfortunately the only men's clothes Bard can find don't fit Bilbo (too big), and he half-jokingly suggests that the hobbit borrow his daughter's dresses/skirts for the time being. Bilbo is soaked through and already getting sick so he actually takes Bard up on the offer and puts on a skirt and blouse. He finds its not too bad, nice even, the skirt gives him more room to move and the pattern's quite pretty. Meanwhile Thorin is sitting in the corner watching the burglar twirling around in a skirt silently having an inner crisis. Dwalin gives him a consolidatory pat on the shoulder and leaves him to it. Plus points for: "I'm never wearing trousers again!" and Thorin just excusing himself to go and 'sharpen his sword'” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=24882549#t24882549).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are too many of them to be inside all the time, so Thorin settles outside to eat the meager rations Bard’s provided. Dwalin comes along, probably because the small children inside seem to irk him. Bilbo’s already sitting on the wooden balcony, feet kicking aimlessly over the edge. The subtle wind picks up his skirt here and there, sliding it across his thighs—Bard, probably to be expected, had no spare clothes to fit the halfling, and instead had to offer a skirt and blouse from his smallest daughter. To Thorin’s surprise, Bilbo accepted, although it might’ve had something to do with the fact that all his old clothes were thoroughly soaked through and torn and muddy from the journey.

In fact, the hobbit seems quite content to be in new clothes—proper hobbits are usually very punctual with their laundry duties, he’d said. The rest of Thorin’s company, thankfully, were able to procure some more tradition outfits, although that doesn’t help Thorin out of his current predicament. 

He has to remind himself every so often to chew. He keeps pausing in his meal to _stare_ , watching the creamy skin of Bilbo’s thighs turn slightly pale in the cold, his knees a glossy pink whenever the skirt slips over them. Bilbo’s little fingers keep straightening it back out, smoothing the fabric over his lap. Sometimes he fiddles with the hem around his waist too, and this is particularly difficult for Thorin to see—Bilbo has very full hips for a person of his stature, and once or twice the term “child-bearing” comes to mind, and Thorin has to force himself to look away. 

He stuffs the last of his bread into his mouth, working through the stale dough in silence. It isn’t much, but they’ve had worse on this journey and gone without plenty of times. 

And yet Bilbo’s managed to keep his full figure, his plump thighs squishing softly against the hard wood he sits on, making it easy for Thorin to imagine the weight of them in his hands. Bilbo’s skin would be very supple and warm, Thorin imagines, his delicate flesh particularly sensitive. Sometimes, Thorin finds himself staring too long at the pointed tips of Bilbo’s intricate ears, which just seem to beg to be traced and licked at the ends.

But the skirt makes everything worse, because suddenly Thorin can see so much of his legs, right down to his large feet covered in matted honey hair. And Thorin can’t help but think, daydream, in amongst faint memories of Erebor, what it would be like to have Bilbo in his new kingdom, wearing these same clothes, but in the heat of the mountain where he might need something even _shorter_. There’s another benefit to skirts: such _easy_ access. How simple would it be to lift the little hobbit against a wall, pin him there and spread his legs, slide the fabric right up to his waist and leave him all exposed...

Thorin nearly chokes on his bread. He tries to cover it by coughing loudly, and Dwalin gives him a firm pat on the back. When Thorin looks over, he gets the distinct impression that the pat was more consolatory than anything. There’s a faint flush to Dwalin’s face that could be the cold, but could just as easily be the same sick thoughts from Thorin’s mind, and he almost growls; if anyone should get the joys of Bilbo’s skirt, it should be _him_.

Which is, of course, absurd. But the possessive feeling lingers, burning even hotter when Bilbo glances over at Thorin whilst licking tiny breadcrumbs off the end of his fingers. “You know, this isn’t so bad after all. I know I put up a bit of a fuss at first, but it is actually quite nice to have more room to move.” Looking down again, Bilbo picks up the end of his skirt, and all Thorin can think is that anyone down below on one of the rickety wooden bridges will get a lovely view. “And the pattern’s quite pretty, don’t you think?”

Coughing once, Dwalin gets to his feet and makes a hasty exit, not saying a word. That just leaves the two of them on the balcony, Bilbo smiling so very innocently and looking at Thorin in expectation. Thorin grunts, “It’s... very nice.”

“I have sheets back home that are similar,” Bilbo sighs, looking down again. Then, to Thorin’s horror, he climbs up to his feet, stepping away from the edge, just to do a theatrical spin in place. The skirt flicks up around him, lifting almost to his crotch. Thorin _stares_ , until Bilbo stops, smiling down. “You know, I could get used to this. Perhaps I won’t go back to trousers at all!”

Thorin jumps to his feet so fast he nearly slips off an icy patch. Bilbo looks at him, but Thorin’s already stomping back towards the door, willing himself with every last bit of strength he has _not_ to picture taking Bilbo in the skirt, either pressed against the wall or snuggled into a cot or sitting in his lap in Erebor’s throne. As he passes Bilbo, the poor hobbit asks, confused, “Where are you going?”

Without thinking, Thorin announces, “To sharpen my sword!” And he disappears off into the house, rushing to find the first secluded place he comes to.


End file.
